


Love Like This

by lettersinpetals



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, Canon Compliant, College Student Sakusa Kiyoomi, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, it appears for like 2 seconds, soft happy story, there is the lightest angst, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersinpetals/pseuds/lettersinpetals
Summary: He had every part of him memorized, from the hair that had lightened to platinum blonde, to the way the sleeves of his shirt stretched over his biceps.But he figured it was only right.After all, they were best friends.--In which Sakusa Kiyoomi is the biggest cliche to ever exist, because he was stupid enough to fall for his best friend, Miya Atsumu.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 52
Kudos: 811
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	Love Like This

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been wanting to write forever, and I thought it's the perfect entry for Fluff Week Day 4: College AU + "I'm not moving. Your lap is comfortable."
> 
> Keep in mind that present time is 2017.

He first saw Miya Atsumu when he was 13.

Not that he could pinpoint him; Kiyoomi could barely tell him apart from his twin. But he knew about the Miya twins even then, knew that they were going to be a threat to him one day.

Atsumu was just a mild curiosity to him at the time, something he dismissed and stashed away in a drawer for proper study later. And Kiyoomi didn’t open that drawer until they were in first year high school and he crouched to receive Atsumu’s serve — and missed.

He blinked at the spot where the ball landed, accepting that he’d underestimated the team they were up against and slacked off. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the boy with the bleached blonde hair. Kiyoomi was paying attention now.

Later, after Itachiyama reestablished its dominance over Inarizaki, they ran into each other inside the restroom.

“Hey,” the boy said immediately. “It’s you! With the spinny spikes. How’d you do that?”

Kiyoomi stared at him, taken aback.

“Oh, name’s Atsumu,” the boy said, mistaking his silence for confusion. Well it _was_ confusion, but Kiyoomi was thinking more along the lines of _‘How bold of this person to speak so directly to me.’_ “Miya Atsumu. But I have a twin, Osamu. So just call me Atsumu.”

“No,” Kiyoomi said, not really sure what he was disagreeing with. But when in doubt, say no, that was his life motto. And also — “Go away.”

Atsumu looked affronted. “I was just curious! Is it a secret?”

“No.” Kiyoomi turned away, dismissing him, and headed over to the sink.

“Prickly,” Atsumu grumbled.

Kiyoomi heard footsteps retreating, and the door opening and closing, and then he was blessedly alone.

As he washed his hands, he took out the mental file he had on Miya Atsumu and started filling it in. _Miya Atsumu, good serve_ , he thought. _Good setter. A little brash, kinda annoying. Speaks Kansai-ben. Brown eyes._

And, _he has blonde hair now, that makes it easy to identify him_. It was a shitty color, but he made it look good.

It was an errant thought, like a passing observation about the weather. Miya Atsumu was pretty cute, that was just fact.

**2017**

There was nothing _‘pretty cute’_ about Miya Atsumu now. At 23, he was no longer a boy but was growing steadily into a man; he toed the line between childish charm and infuriating sexiness, and he knew it, too.

Kiyoomi still kept a mental file on him — pages and pages of it full off scribbled _‘jerk’_ and _‘he likes fatty tuna’_ and _‘I hate him, he’s the worst, I hate him.’_ There shouldn’t be any space for more, but Kiyoomi was always surprised that there was something new to learn about still, after all this time. He had every part of him memorized, from the hair that had lightened to platinum blonde, to the way the sleeves of his shirt stretched over his biceps.

But he figured it was only right.

After all, they were best friends.

“Hey, you,” Miya Atsumu was saying now. He was leaning against the door of Kiyoomi’s college dorm room with his arms crossed, watching him in amusement. “What’re you thinking about? I thought you wanted to be early for the party.”

Kiyoomi stared at him, speechless. First because Atsumu looked more handsome than usual — hair deliberately styled to look as if he just rolled out of bed, a casual gray blazer over a plain white shirt, blue jeans that clung to his thick thighs and white sneakers. He could stroll into either a birthday party or a television interview looking like that and nobody would complain.

Some people really had it all.

The second and more pressing reason Kiyoomi was staring — Atsumu was not supposed to be here.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Kiyoomi said, from where he was still splayed on his bed.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re supposed to meet at the party, but I knew you’d be late because you don’t really wanna go,” Atsumu said, stepping into his room and shutting the door behind him. “So I decided to just pick you up. You planning on getting up soon or…?”

Kiyoomi turned his back on him, curling on his side. “Don’t wanna.” He really didn’t.

The bed dipped behind him, Atsumu pressing a hand on the mattress near Kiyoomi’s face, trapping him. Kiyoomi studied the elegant fingers, the clean nails, the barely perceptible callouses. Winter had already started so Atsumu’s fingertips were showing the first signs of drying — he’ll be whining about that soon.

Kiyoomi could feel Atsumu’s gaze boring into the side of his face and felt a flash of resentment. He hadn’t even bathed yet; he was a mess and Atsumu dared strut in here looking like a runway model.

He _was_ a model, kinda, but that was beside the point.

“You’re aware that he’s your friend, right?” Atsumu asked. “And that I came here all the way from Osaka to keep you company? You’re lucky it’s still off-season, honestly, Omi-kun…”

Kiyoomi pouted. “But it’s in a club. It’s gonna be gross and there’ll be lots of people.” His nose was already wrinkling at the thought. He had yet to _‘grow out’_ of his aversion to crowds and humans in general, as Komori used to tell him he would, but he had managed to build up a tolerance for it.

Parties, though, were a different matter entirely. The stench of alcohol and sweat and cigarette smoke in a packed space… he shuddered at the thought. Once again, he wondered why he agreed in the first place.

“You said yes,” Atsumu reminded him. “And I thought we said you were going to try harder with this _friends_ thing.”

Right, that, too. He did tell Atsumu that, once upon a time. But he wasn’t about to admit that he only did that because he wanted to wane Atsumu out of his system by replacing him with a bunch of other people.

And failed, for that matter.

But he did like the friends he’d made the past few years, so he sighed and dragged himself into a sitting position, shoving Atsumu’s arm away. “Fine. I’m gonna get ready.”

As he got to his feet, he heard more than saw Atsumu lie back on the bed. “Take your time. Bokuto and the rest of the team are already there, they’ll likely distract everyone from your absence.”

Ah, Bokuto Koutarou, the newly signed member of the MSBY Black Jackals — Atsumu’s team. In some twist of fate, he was apparently also close to some of Kiyoomi’s college friends, Kozume Kenma and Akaashi Keiji. But Kiyoomi shouldn’t be surprised — even _he_ vaguely remembered the two of them from high school, which was why he acknowledged them in the first place when they ran into each other on campus.

Yawning, Kiyoomi made his way to his tiny bathroom, flattening his hair with a palm. It was getting long again, his wavy fringe getting into his left eye.

Taking his time in the shower, he mentally prepared himself for the night ahead. He didn’t plan on staying long — he just wanted to show up, greet Kenma a happy birthday, say hi to the other visitors, maybe indulge in a drink or two. And then he was going to dash out and watch a movie with Atsumu or something, because it had been his 23rd birthday recently. Kiyoomi knew his friends wouldn’t mind; at this point, they’re used to it. They would probably be expecting it.

He’d feel bad if he really wasn’t in the mood for chaos tonight.

Done with his shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped towards the sink to brush his teeth. His dark curls were dripping water down his pale face, and he noticed that he had bags under his eyes again. That was what he got for cramming a paper because he’d spent a little too much time practicing by himself in the court. Balancing his studies and volleyball had never been easy, but it was becoming harder and harder to do each year.

But senior year was almost over. He just had to keep going.

After going through the rest of his routine, Kiyoomi stepped out of the bathroom and made his way to his cramped closet. He studied his options, as if he wasn’t just going to wear his usual all-neutral ensemble. The only question was whether to go with a white, black, or gray sweater.

“Wear white tonight,” Atsumu advised. “So we match.”

Rolling his eyes, Kiyoomi grabbed a white sweater, a black pair of jeans, and a pair of boxers, which he slipped on first under his towel. As he hopped into his jeans, he could feel eyes watching him. That wasn’t anything new, so he ignored it.

When he was dressed, he made his way back to the bed with a brush and a bottle of hair gel, which he handed Atsumu. He sat down just as Atsumu sat up, reaching for his head.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Atsumu observed as he brushed it with practiced movements.

“I know.”

They remained silent as Atsumu styled his hair, combing half of it back and curling his fringe in an effort to keep it out of his eyes. By now, Kiyoomi could do that himself, but Atsumu was the one to come up with the style so he always did it when he was present.

Kiyoomi liked it.

Atsumu finished with a lingering touch on his temple, before retracting his hand. “All done.”

“Alright,” Kiyoomi sighed. “I guess we have to go now.”

“You don’t have to sound so disappointed,” Atsumu snorted. “You won’t die from a party.”

“I just don’t get why Kenma has to hold it in a club,” he said sullenly. “He doesn’t like people any more than I do.”

“You said he’s also throwing the party to celebrate Bokuto’s move to the Jackals,” Atsumu reminded. “At Kuroo’s insistence.”

Yes, and that was why the Jackals would be at the party, too. He already knew that. But he could still be upset at having to interact with so many people.

Atsumu was already standing up, clearly done listening to his whining. “Knowing Kenma, he probably booked the entire club. There would hardly be any strangers. It’s gonna be fine, Omi. Come on, don’t you wanna hang out with my teammates?”

“I hang out with them.”

“You nod at them or stare blankly at them from afar on the rare times you watch a game. And when you do have to hang out with them, you glue yourself to me and glare at them like they have a terminal disease. Or you only speak with Osamu and pretend they’re not there.”

“I’m not familiar with them.”

Atsumu sighed. “Omi. I try with _your_ friends, as snobby as they are.”

“They’re not snobby. They’re shy.”

“Well — same difference!” Atsumu threw his hands up. “Talking to them is still like talking to a wall! Jeez.”

Kiyoomi snorted at that. It was always funny to watch Atsumu try to tease and make jokes with Kenma and Akaashi, only to be given strange, blank looks. It always mortified him. “I keep telling you that you’re not funny, you don’t listen.”

“Well, you still laugh at my jokes.”

That was Kiyoomi’s mistake. “Only out of pity.”

Sighing heavily, Atsumu asked, “Are we gonna bicker all night or are we gonna get this over with?”

Resigned, Kiyoomi stood up, picking up his phone and keys before following Atsumu to the door. He grabbed a gray coat on the way out — not because he did want to match with Atsumu, definitely not — and then they were outside and there was no more going back.

October air was chilly, but Kiyoomi knew it would be nothing compared to January. He stuffed his gloved hands in his pocket and slid a sideways glance at Atsumu, whose face was dimly lit by the street lamp they’d just passed by. The night was silent, making the thoughts banging around in Kiyoomi’s head sound louder.

Atsumu had just turned 23. Soon, Kiyoomi would, too. That would be 10 years since they first laid their eyes on each other, so innocent and unknowing of what would come in the future.

Just how did they get here?

How did Kiyoomi fall in love with his best friend?

**2012**

Their second interaction was when they were in their second year of high school. To be honest, Kiyoomi hadn’t spared much thought about Miya Atsumu since that encounter in the restroom — living in different prefectures didn’t give them many opportunities to cross paths unless it was some big thing.

The All-Japan Youth Training Camp was one of those big things. Kiyoomi was pleased to have been chosen to take part in the prestigious program, but not very surprised. He knew that he was good because he worked hard to be.

He wasn’t surprised that Atsumu was chosen either. Even with the distance between them, like could recognize like.

There were others, too, like Kageyama Tobio from Karasuno and Hoshiumi Kourai from Kamomedai. Kiyoomi’s cousin and teammate Komori Motoya also received an invite, which he wouldn’t shut up about.

All of them eyed each other with both respect and thinly-veiled menace. Except Komori. He was entirely too nice.

After their first training session, Atsumu blocked his path towards the bathroom and grinned at him proudly. “You! I figured it out.”

Kiyoomi scowled at him. “What?”

“The spin,” Atsumu said as if it was obvious. As if they were continuing a conversation that took place minutes ago instead of months. “It’s your weird wrists, isn’t it?”

That was hardly a secret. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “Congratulations.” He brushed past the idiot, eager to shower before everyone else got their germs in the bathroom.

But Atsumu followed him, effortlessly keeping up with his strides. “So how come your wrists do that, huh?”

Kiyoomi sighed, aggrieved. “They just do. They’ve always been able to. Hypermobility, look it up.” His parents had explained the condition to him when he was much younger, and said that while it could be advantageous, he had to be mindful of his joints. He was lucky that he didn’t suffer from symptoms other than being a little more bendy than most.

“Okay then, I will. Later.” Atsumu chattered away for the rest of the walk, and Kiyoomi studied him from the corner of his eye, wondering how anyone could jump from topic to topic like that. He added _‘weird’_ and _‘won’t stop talking’_ in his mental file on Atsumu.

Kiyoomi didn’t think he’d have to put up with Atsumu for more than small doses at a time, but he completely underestimated how _long_ that week-long camp was. He was used to going on inter-school camps, but free time during those things was spent mostly with teammates. In this instance, he only had Komori by his side — and surprisingly, Atsumu, when he wasn’t wasting time provoking hapless kids.

“Can’t you leave me alone,” Kiyoomi sighed one day when they were all catching their breath and rehydrating by the bleachers.

“Why?” Atsumu pouted. Sweat was dripping down his face, hair plastered against his forehead. He was a little ugly like this, and stinky too, but Kiyoomi knew he wasn’t any better. There was no time to be self-conscious when playing sports. “You’re the only cool person here, the rest are losers!”

Kiyoomi paused at that. Nobody had ever called him _cool_. Cold, sure. Snobbish, yes. Difficult, definitely.

He didn’t know how to feel that Miya Atsumu, of all people, thought he was _cool_.

It was nothing to be flustered about, and yet he _was_ flustered. He hid it with a raised eyebrow. “We literally have nothing in common. Go bother Komori.”

“I have less things in common with Komori,” Atsumu pointed out. “You’ll just have to get used to me, Omi-kun!”

“I told you not to call me that,” Kiyoomi gritted out. He didn’t even know how Atsumu came up with it. Certainly, it was the first time anyone dared called him a cutesy nickname.

But Atsumu was apparently not good at following orders or rules, because he made a point to call Kiyoomi that any chance he got. Kiyoomi added that tidbit to the File; _‘stubborn,’_ too.

He was starting to suspect the list was getting unnecessarily long, but nobody else had to know that.

And when he grudgingly agreed to give Atsumu his number at the end of camp, he figured it was only going to get longer.

\--

He was right.

It was always a good thing to learn things about your rivals, but not this much, Kiyoomi thought.

But giving Atsumu his number was akin to letting him stuff a foot in the door before it closed and now he was forcing his way in.

And by the way Kiyoomi kept reluctantly responding to his messages, he could hardly say he was an unwilling party, even though he often doubted his sanity.

Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if he and Atsumu were friends, or just people who texted each other whenever they remembered or whenever they were bored. Their conversations were on the side of rare, but they always picked up as if no time had passed since the last one.

 _What does that say about us, I wonder_. _Maybe we_ are _friends._

But it wasn’t like he was in a hurry to admit that.

Time flew by and Atsumu wormed himself to become a semi-regular, albeit largely distant, fixture in his life. Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if it was their text conversations that taught him how to tolerate Atsumu, but when they did see each other again at a training camp in Tokyo during their third year, he found himself expecting the _‘Hey, Omi-kun!’_ and _‘Wait ‘til you see my new serve!’_ and _‘Remember that cat video I sent you? I found more.’_

He got a strange look from Komori when he witnessed the conversation.

“Are you two...friends?” his cousin asked in bafflement as Atsumu trotted off to rejoin his teammates, who all seemed to be in a similar state of disbelief. Osamu was the only one who didn’t look surprised.

“No,” Kiyoomi answered. “We’re two captains having a chat.”

“You let him touch you on the shoulder,” Komori pointed out.

“He has no concept of personal space.”

“You don’t seem to be bothered by that.”

“I am.” It was only when the words slipped past his lips that he found that he was lying, a little. He wasn’t very bothered. 

“Okay,” Komori said doubtfully. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” he said, because he was too proud to backtrack. Besides, he didn’t know what the big deal was — he didn’t like being touched by just anyone, but he didn’t mind it if it was his family or Komori.

 _I guess that means Atsumu isn’t just anyone_ , he mused.

When the camp came to an end and it was time for everyone to go home, Atsumu rested an elbow on Kiyoomi’s shoulder. Kiyoomi let him.

“See ya at Nationals, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asked, gazing at his teammates who were climbing aboard their bus.

“We’ll win,” Kiyoomi replied, gazing at him.

“We’ll see about that! It’s our last high school tournament, I’m not letting you have it.” Atsumu removed his elbow and shot Kiyoomi finger guns as he walked backwards to his bus. “Text ya later!”

What a loser.

“Not friends, huh?” Komori asked, coming up behind him.

“Maybe we are, a little,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s not important. Let’s go.”

He did meet Atsumu again at Nationals, just like he did at every Nationals before that. Atsumu winked at Kiyoomi when he happened to pass him by, as if it was the two of them against each other instead of a handful of high school teams fighting to get to the top. 

It felt like having a secret, somehow.

Both of their teams lost. The inescapable feeling of failure weighed on Kiyoomi, the responsibility as captain making it feel heavier.

He waited for Atsumu by the exit, and the other boy strode over to him, dejection and determination glimmering in his eyes.

“Hey,” Atsumu challenged. “The next one, we’ll win together.”

And that sounded well and good, but Kiyoomi knew they wouldn't be playing the same circuits as of yet. They’ve both touched on the topic of the future in their text conversations, but nothing had been set in stone.

Until recently. Recently enough that he hadn’t found the time to tell Atsumu.

“I’ll be going to college, Miya,” he finally admitted.

Atsumu paused. Then, predictably, he got upset. “College! _?_ But _why_? The hell for?”

Kiyoomi shrugged, unfazed. “It’s my parents’ one request. I’d still join a team though.”

“That’s _four years_ ,” Atsumu said, as if Kiyoomi had missed that bit of information. The drama queen was acting as if Kiyoomi was headed off to war instead of furthering his education.

“Yes, so I’ll see you after that span of time,” Kiyoomi dismissed.

“You’ll go pro after?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And you’ll be in my team?”

“That’s...not part of the plan.”

“Omi,” Atsumu whined.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi said in exasperation. “It’s entirely too early for me to be choosing a team I’ll be joining four years from now. Like I said, I’ll see you after that span of time. Whether on the same side of the net or the opposite.”

Atsumu narrowed his eyes at him. “We’ll see.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. Atsumu was so damn arrogant to think that he could have any bearing in Kiyoomi’s decisions at all.

Of course, it wouldn’t be until later that he’d realize how wrong he was. In more ways than one.

**2017**

“Tsum-Tsum!” The voice rang out over the music, and Kiyoomi keenly felt dozens of eyes land on him and Atsumu at once. “You got him!”

 _Tsum-Tsum?_ Kiyoomi felt a flash of annoyance. He also didn’t appreciate being referred to as if he was a piece of luggage.

Atsumu slung an arm around him as if feeling his irritation. “I told ya he’d be here, didn’t I? Omi-Omi, say hi to Bokkun.”

Kiyoomi scowled. _Bokkun?_ When Atsumu nudged him, he forced out, “Hi.”

The black and white-haired man who had run over to stand in front of them grinned at him brightly, but to his credit didn’t move another muscle. He probably knew about Kiyoomi’s fussy tendencies. And Kiyoomi knew him too, of course. After all, they were both among the top aces in Japan as early as high school, not to mention all the times they encountered each other in tournaments.

Bokuto Koutarou from Fukurodani. He had signed with the EJP Raijins after high school, and now he’s in the MSBY Black Jackals with Atsumu.

Atsumu steered him away before he could dwell on that, towards the table where the rest of his teammates sat. “And you know the team. They didn’t all make it, but here’s Meian, Adriah, Barnes, and Inunaki.”

Kiyoomi nodded at them, and they stood up from their seats and dipped their heads at him right back. They didn’t make another move, probably — and correctly — guessing that Kiyoomi didn’t want them near. Good. Turning to Atsumu, he ordered, “Let’s go greet Kenma.”

“Alright.”

This time it was Kiyoomi who dragged Atsumu to another table, where he’d earlier spotted his friends. It looked like Atsumu was right and Kenma _did_ rent out the entire club — there was a big crowd, but not big enough to be suffocating. Kiyoomi wondered how many of these people Kenma personally knew; he never struck him as the sociable type.

“You made it,” Akaashi said when they reached their table. “You’re late.”

“Atsumu was being a slowpoke,” Kiyoomi said.

“But his team has been here for a while already,” Kenma said, fixing him with a stare. Kiyoomi stubbornly held the disquieting gaze.

“It was him, he was being a slowpoke,” Atsumu said, to Kiyoomi’s disgruntlement. Kiyoomi glared at Atsumu, who just grinned at Kenma without a care. “Hey, Pudding-kun!”

And this was why his friends disliked Atsumu. Kiyoomi elbowed him. “Happy birthday, Kenma-san.”

“Happy birthday, Kenma-san,” Atsumu repeated obediently.

Kiyoomi pulled out a chair and sat down, accepting the bottle of beer that Kenma handed him. “Where’s Kuroo?”

Kenma waved a hand in a vague direction. “Talking to our high school friends or something, I‘m not sure.”

“Why aren’t you over there?”

“They’re exhausting,” Kenma grumbled. “I need to conserve my energy if I’m surviving tonight.”

Atsumu, who’d been hovering behind Kiyoomi, patted him on the shoulder. “Omi, I’m gonna go sit with the team.”

Kiyoomi craned his head back to look at him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Atsumu said, like he’d been asking for permission and it was just granted. “I’ll just be right over there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of his teammates and turned away. Kiyoomi watched him go.

When he faced his friends, they were already staring at him.

“Don’t,” he said, before they could start.

“It’s been years and years of this,” Akaashi said. “It was worse than when I had to watch Kenma and Kuroo dance around each other our entire high school lives.”

Right, their teams were always together at training camps, along with Karasuno.

“That was different,” Kenma cut in. “Because Kuro and I were both clueless and still figuring it out. _They_ ,” he nodded at Kiyoomi, “already _know_. They just pretend not to and never talk about it.”

“It’s not like that,” Kiyoomi protested. He rolled the bottle of beer between his palms and slid a finger down the condensation on the surface.

“You’re practically boyfriends,” Akaashi said. “In everything but name.”

“We’re not.”

“He gave you a Netflix account,” Kenma said, ticking off a finger. “He gave you a Spotify account—”

“Because he’d just gotten his first paycheck as a brand endorser and wanted to treat me. I would have appreciated food more.” None of them mentioned that Kiyoomi did get said food — he had visited Osaka and they went out for dinner to celebrate. In his defense, it really was a momentous occasion. Atsumu was in _magazines_ , that wasn’t anything to scoff about.

Kenma pretended not to have heard. “You have the keys to each other’s dorms. You attend his Tokyo matches wearing his jacket. You stay up waiting for his call every night—”

“Not every night.”

“He surprises you in campus,” Kenma ticked off another finger, “and when he visits he sleeps in your bed beside you—”

“Where else would he sleep?”

“And you claim that nothing ever happens, but why is he so comfortable touching you and why do you let him—”

“ _Nothing_ ever happens,” Kiyoomi insisted heavily. It was true; the most they did was cuddle. Often. But still. “And he’s my best friend, of course I’m comfortable with him.”

“I don’t get it,” Akaashi admitted. “Why not just put yourself out of your misery and confess? For heaven’s sake, you’re each other’s Valentine every year, even when he has a boyfriend or girlfriend.”

Kiyoomi’s eye twitched at the reminder.

Sharp-eyed as always, Kenma spotted the tiny movement. “You know, if you don’t, then somebody else will take that shot, and what if he accepts again? What if it sticks, this time? Next thing you know, he’ll be married. Don’t come crying to us when that happens.”

The image that formed Kiyoomi’s mind made him sick — Atsumu and some faceless man or woman, wearing matching rings, making plans to have a dozen kids. It turned Kiyoomi’s stomach and made him nauseous.

It was not allowed to happen, ever. He said so.

“That won’t happen,” Kiyoomi said. “There’s no possibility of that.”

Kenma and Akaashi exchanged glances.

“How would you know?” Akaashi asked.

Kiyoomi took a small sip of his beer and licked his lips as he swallowed down the bitter taste. “Because he said so.”

**2014**

University, for him, was just supposed to be something he had to suffer through, a logical next step. He figured he’d go to classes, play volleyball, generally work his ass off — no different from high school, honestly.

In the beginning, that proved to be true. He was accepted into the university volleyball team, so it was a delicate balance, keeping his grades up and his performance on the court consistent. The good thing was that he had a little bit more freedom in scheduling his classes, and the responsibility of managing his tasks and papers fell solely on him. He prided himself on being disciplined, so he more or less pulled it off.

It was the group projects that grated on his nerves. He had no control over his groupmates, and couldn’t help but let his disdain for them bleed through in every interaction. Needless to say, he didn’t make many friends. He didn’t care about that, because he had no use for friends who couldn’t complete their tasks on time.

When he ran into Kenma and Akaashi, who were walking together in a hallway, all three of them blinked at each other in startled recognition.

Kenma looked at him with wide, wary eyes as if he was about to bolt off if he made the wrong move, but Akaashi composed himself fast enough to say, “Sakusa-san, hello.”

Not knowing what else to do, Kiyoomi simply nodded and continued on his way.

But there were only so many places you could go in Chuo, as big as the campus may be, so it was inevitable that they would encounter each other repeatedly.

Finally, Akaashi walked up to him while he was sitting by a bench outside during a break in his classes.

“Sakusa-san, Kozume and I were wondering if you would like to join us for lunch,” he said, polite but straight to the point.

Kiyoomi glanced past him to see Kenma sitting on another bench, hunched over a PlayStation and hiding behind his hair.

The sight wasn’t a very welcoming one — Kiyoomi knew he came across as intimidating on a good day, there was every chance he would scare them away — but there wasn’t exactly much for him to lose. He didn’t dislike them; in fact, he respected them because they had been worthy opponents on the court once. If he had to make friends, at least they were people who understood volleyball.

So he accepted the invitation and made an effort to be nice.

Theirs was a friendship born of quiet understanding — none of them were talkative or outgoing or even adept in social interactions, but that was precisely the reason why it worked so well. There were days that Kiyoomi completely forgot about them, busy as he was with studying and practicing, but then Kenma made a group chat, and it all went easier from there. Apparently, they were all better at texting than speaking in real life.

It was unexpected. But nice.

Another thing he didn’t expect was for his kind-of-friendship with Miya Atsumu to survive. 

Aside from his cousin, Kiyoomi no longer spoke to the people he had known in high school. People drifted apart, that was just how it is. And he’d thought that Atsumu, whom he barely even saw before, and texted infrequently at best — well, he’d thought he’d be one of the people who’d just fade from memory.

But Atsumu was apparently a weed that kept popping up and growing, because sometime in the middle of Kiyoomi’s first semester, he texted again.

**Atsumu** : sooo i signed with the msby black jackals in osaka.

 **Kiyoomi** : Congratulations.

 **Atsumu** : thanks! where r u?

 **Kiyoomi** : Chuo. I got into the team.

 **Atsumu** : ofc u did. maybe i’ll watch one of your games one day. watch mine? i’ll prob be benched for a long while, but still

 **Kiyoomi** : We’ll see.

Kiyoomi figured that was it; Atsumu was just checking in. When he didn’t text again for days, he’d thought he was right.

But then Atsumu did text again. And again, and again. Nothing important, just stuff about his new team, while Kiyoomi talked a little about what college is like.

Their conversations started off as infrequent as they had been in high school but gained traction as months passed, until Kiyoomi he looked up one day and realized his routine was no longer complete without speaking to Atsumu.

By the end of Kiyoomi’s first school year, they had incorporated the random phone call.

And by then, Atsumu was comfortable enough to offer to visit.

“Season’s over,” Atsumu told him over the phone one March day. “I could use a distraction to blow off steam.”

“You barely did anything,” Kiyoomi pointed out.

“Oh, shut up. Next season I will. Anyway, you’re also due for a break soon, right?”

“Yes, new school year starts April.”

“Alright, then. I’ll come visit, say...two days from now?”

“Fine.”

“You should sound happier at the prospect of seeing me, Omi-kun!”

“But I’m not.”

Atsumu sighed. “Some things never change.”

Two days later, it hit Kiyoomi that he wasn’t at all ready to see Miya Atsumu again in the flesh. What was the purpose of this even? What did they even have to talk about?

And why was he so nervous?

But it was too late to turn back now.

He told Kenma and Akaashi that he was meeting up with an old acquaintance, and then he was off, hopping on a train to get to the coffee shop they had agreed on.

By the time Kiyoomi was walking up to the entrance, Atsumu was already there, waiting outside. Taking a moment to study him, Kiyoomi noted that he looked the same as always, except he seemed bigger, a bit more buff.

When Atsumu looked at him and grinned that annoying grin, Kiyoomi didn’t understand why he felt so breathless. It must have been the walk.

“Omi-Omi!”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes as he reached him. “Miya. Let’s go inside.”

They did, and Atsumu insisted on paying for their drinks _‘because I make my own money now, Omi-kun, I’m not about to make you pay with your allowance.'_ They settled on a table beside the window and, amazingly, spoke as if no time had passed.

Hours passed by in a blink of an eye, and Kiyoomi was surprised to find himself enjoying the company. He didn’t realize that they both had so much to tell each other, stories that piled up over the past year, stories about their strange new worlds.

Four hours and several pastries and coffee cups later, they finally decided to call it a day.

“Long ride back to Osaka,” Atsumu said sheepishly as they stepped outside. “I don’t wanna get back too late, so I’ll head off now.”

“Alright.” Disappointment curled in Kiyoomi’s stomach, and he had the irrational urge to ask him to stay. To offer his cramped dorm and tell him to go back home tomorrow.

But that was ridiculous. He didn’t even know why Atsumu made the effort to go all the way to Tokyo just for a coffee with him. So he simply walked Atsumu to the train station, all the while hoping that time would slow down a little.

“Well,” Atsumu said when they reached the station. He toed the ground, looking uncharacteristically awkward. “See ya next time, Omi-kun.”

“Yeah, see you,” Kiyoomi said, just as awkward.

Atsumu brightened at his response, and Kiyoomi belatedly realized what he agreed to. “Nice.” Grin on his face, Atsumu started walking backwards and did those stupid finger guns again. “Bye.”

Kiyoomi snorted. “Bye.”

He whirled around and hurried away, unable to explain the heat in his cheeks.

That night in his dorm, he texted Komori.

**Kiyoomi** : I had lunch with Miya today.

 **Komori** : WHAT? Miya? Atsumu??

 **Kiyoomi** : Yes.

 **Komori** : WHY?

 **Kiyoomi** : He just wanted to visit. Friends do that, right?

 **Komori** : ...friends? You’re saying you two are friends?

 **Kiyoomi** : Yes. We’re friends now.

Smiling to himself, Kiyoomi pondered that. _Friends,_ he thought. _I’m friends with Miya Atsumu._

It was strange. But nice.

**2015**

The whole _'best friends'_ business only started during Kiyoomi's sophomore year of college.

It happened so naturally that he didn’t even notice. Despite the 300 miles between them, his and Atsumu's lives weaved together effortlessly. It was a one-thing-led-to-another kind of thing, really. The rare phone call turned nightly, the daily conversations became one long unending one, and the supposedly one-time visit became a monthly appointment.

“What’s Miya Atsumu doing here?” Akaashi asked one day out of the blue, as they hung out on the bench they had claimed as theirs.

Kiyoomi whipped his head to the side to stare at him. “What?”

Folding his book closed, Akaashi pointed his chin across the campus. “Over there.”

Heartbeat picking up, Kiyoomi searched for the man in question and found him posing for selfies with students who seemed to have recognized him as they passed.

Despite the shock, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Atsumu bid goodbye to his fans and must have felt eyes on him, because he turned his head to meet his gaze. His face lit up and he waved obnoxiously before jogging up to him.

“Oh no, he’s coming here,” Kenma mumbled. There was the sound of fingers tapping on keys, and Kiyoomi knew he had buried himself in a game again.

“Wait, why?” Akaashi wondered. “Was he waving at us?”

Kiyoomi cleared his throat. “He’s here for me, I think.”

“Why?” Akaashi asked again, sounding more baffled this time.

“Well — we’re friends. It’s off-season. He does this sometimes, but he _wasn’t supposed to enter the campus_.” He raised his voice saying the last line, so Atsumu could hear.

The idiot just smiled as if he did nothing wrong and skidded to a stop in front of him. “Omi! You’re done with classes, right? Let’s go somewhere.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“Surprise?” Atsumu asked innocently. “Samu had business to take care of here in Tokyo, so I came with. It’s apparently very easy to come in here, they should work on that. The guards just let me pass.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I’ll be looking into post-grad options.”

Kiyoomi sighed heavily. He turned to his friends, who were eyeing him now. “Akaashi, Kenma, this is Atsumu. Atsumu, this is Akaashi —”

“From Fukurodani,” Atsumu said, snapping his fingers.

“And that’s Kenma—”

“You used to have more blonde hair than black,” Atsumu mused, “like a pudding. Bleaching is shitty, huh?”

“Can you shut up and sit down?” Kiyoomi groused. “People are starting to stare.”

Atsumu sat on the bench opposite them obediently. “I’ll wait until you’re ready to leave.”

“You could have texted first, then we wouldn’t have a problem.”

“Do you have something to do? You said you don't have practice tonight.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Akaashi said. He pushed at Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “We can have dinner another time, go ahead.”

“You can come with us,” Atsumu offered, as if it was a no-brainer that Kiyoomi would ditch his friends for him.

“No thanks,” Kenma muttered.

“Text us later, Sakusa-kun,” Akaashi said, fixing him with a look that promised grilling later.

Kiyoomi sighed internally and picked up his backpack as he stood up. He walked over and smacked Atsumu over the head. “Let’s go, idiot.”

Atsumu jumped up and kept pace with him as they walked towards the exit.

“Your friends are like you,” Atsumu said conversationally. “Except you’re meaner and more of a jerk.”

“They could also be mean,” Kiyoomi grumbled, remembering Kenma’s sharp glares and Akaashi’s raised eyebrows. “But nowhere close to you. _You’re_ the jerk, I don’t know why I put up with you when I can just spend time with them.”

When Atsumu was silent a few beats too long, Kiyoomi realized he must have hit a nerve. “Why do you?” Atsumu asked quietly. “Put up with me.”

 _Shit, he sounds hurt_. To be honest and fix this, or lie and make them both suffer? He decided to swallow his pride, slowing down his steps. “Because you put up with me. And the worst of me. You’re my best friend.”

Atsumu stopped in his tracks, staring at him bug-eyed. Understandable. Kiyoomi had never even acknowledged their friendship before, this must be a bit much for him.

And then Atsumu grinned so wide his eyes crinkled. “Omi? You mean it?”

Feeling uncomfortable and flustered with all this talk about feelings, Kiyoomi just said, “Of course I mean it, dumbass. As if I would put up nightly calls with just anyone. I barely even reply to Komor—”

His breath left him in a rush as Atsumu lunged forward and grabbed him in a bear hug. “Omi-Omi!”

“Get off,” Kiyoomi wheezed, smacking Atsumu’s shoulder.

Atsumu loosened his grip around his waist but didn’t unwind his arms. He leaned back until they were nearly nose to nose, his eyes staring into his. “You’re my best friend, too.”

Chest pounding for some inexplicable reason, Kiyoomi wormed out of Atsumu’s arms to catch his breath. “I better be. Can we go now?”

“Okay!” Atsumu started walking again, beckoning at Kiyoomi to follow, as if he was the one who caused the disruption in their pace. “Come on, I’ll treat you. As a reward for talking about your _feelings_ ,” he teased.

“Shut the hell up, Miya.”

Atsumu barked out a laugh at the reversion to his last name and they spent the rest of his visit bickering. As they always did.

**2016**

Near the end of his sophomore year, Atsumu got a boyfriend. _'Just trying things out,'_ he said. _'I'm pretty sure I'm bi,'_ he said.

"I'm gay," Kiyoomi bluntly said in response. It was something he had known as early as middle school, when he developed a crush on Ushijima Wakatoshi.

There was a brief silence in the line before Atsumu's voice blared through the speakers again. "What the hell, Omi? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It never came up," he answered honestly. "I wasn’t keeping it a secret. And you never asked."

"Well, it never occurred to me to ask," Atsumu grumbled. "I can't believe you didn't tell me! You dated that girl in your first year, didn’t you?"

Ah. So he did. “I told you I regretted that,” he muttered. “She was really nice and I was grateful that she was a good groupmate. When she asked me out I felt bad at the thought of saying no, so I said yes.”

“So it was a fucking pity date? No, actually, they were _dates_ , plural!”

“I never said that I make good choices all the time,” Kiyoomi gritted out. He had let her down gently when she tried to kiss him after their third date. She never spoke to him again. "I don't get why you're so upset."

He really didn’t. Atsumu had his fair share of girlfriends in the past; Kiyoomi never made a big deal out of them, even though a stone sank in his stomach every time Atsumu would announce that he was dating someone new. And Kiyoomi wasn’t making a fuss about his boyfriend now, even though he wasn’t happy about the revelation.

"I just am," Atsumu snapped.

And he apparently really was, because he refused to reply to any of Kiyoomi's messages for a week.

In his own irritation, Kiyoomi stopped trying to reach out. Good riddance. He owed him nothing. Atsumu was such a jerk, that was something he'd almost forgotten.

Atsumu dated the same guy for four months. _Rhys_ , Kiyoomi thought his name was. And even though Atsumu had resumed talking to Kiyoomi after two weeks, acting as if they never had a fight, things between them were rocky. Tense. He missed Kiyoomi’s birthday. He missed nightly calls. Text messages came few and far in between. Even Osamu had shot Kiyoomi a text asking if something happened. He didn’t answer that.

Two months into Kiyoomi’s junior year, Kenma gripped him by the shoulder and sat him down. “What’s wrong with you?”

Kiyoomi flicked his eyes around and found Akaashi nowhere in sight. He must be in class. Licking his lips, he said, “Nothing.”

Kenma gave him an unimpressed look. “You barely talk to us anymore. Worse, I barely even see you talking to Atsumu on your phone. Did you two fight again?”

His tone told Kiyoomi that he wasn't very surprised. Of course he wasn't — they were used to him and Atsumu fighting; they did it often enough with varying levels of seriousness. Kenma and Akaashi had witnessed harmless bickering and shouting matches in the street alike. One time Kiyoomi walked out on Atsumu at the mall, leaving him with his two friends without a word. He didn't apologize until two days later.

“Yeah, we did,” Kiyoomi admitted. “And I thought we were fine now, but we aren’t. And I don’t know why.”

Kenma plopped down beside him on the bench. “Tell me.”

And Kiyoomi did, the words and pent-up frustration he’d been burying spilling out of him in a rare show of weakness. He told Kenma about Atsumu’s boyfriend, about him getting mad when Kiyoomi told him he was gay, about the way they were drifting apart.

It was the last one that was truly terrifying Kiyoomi.

Kenma pursed his lips. “I see.”

“Do you?” Kiyoomi demanded.

“Yes. You’re spiraling the way Kuro spiraled back when he realized he was in love with me and thought I didn’t love him back.”

Kiyoomi stared at him.

“What?” Kenma cocked his head to the side, staring at him with his eerie gold eyes. “Don’t tell me you don’t know yet.”

“Know what?” Kiyoomi asked, shifting uncomfortably.

Kenma narrowed his eyes at him, studying him for what felt like minutes instead of seconds. Then he leaned back, expression clearing. “You already know.”

“No,” Kiyoomi said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

\--

Later that night, Kiyoomi couldn’t sleep.

He stared up at his dark ceiling and wondered why nothing felt right. He was doing well in academics, his team was winning game after game, and he had _friends_.

But as of now, he no longer had Atsumu.

The realization tore him from the inside out. Atsumu was out there having fun, most likely spending time with his boyfriend, and not thinking about Kiyoomi at all. He didn’t know, nor did he care, that Kiyoomi was breaking his brain trying to make sense of him and their relationship.

Or that he was breaking Kiyoomi’s heart.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? That was what the sharp ache that had been present in his chest for the past few months was all about? He had been upset upon hearing that Atsumu had a boyfriend, irritated that Atsumu had the nerve to be angry at him, and increasingly unmoored the longer things between them stayed weird. And the more their relationship withered, the more unstable Kiyoomi felt.

And he didn’t like that.

He didn’t like that so much of himself hinged on this one guy. Miya fucking Atsumu. Why him? When did Kiyoomi let him have so much power? It didn’t used to be this way. He had been fine on his own. He was _complete_ on his own. So why did he insist on shoving a part of himself to someone who didn’t even want it?

For days, he dwelled on the issue. He was distracted, unable to focus on his classes. When a ball hit him in the face during practice, he knew he had to draw the line somewhere.

He faced the facts. _One, I’m in love with Miya Atsumu. Two, he has a boyfriend. Three, we’re barely even speaking anymore._

What was he to do? The next best option was to preserve the rest of him that could still be preserved. And to do that, he needed to suck out the poison.

So when Atsumu next texted him, he did what he had to do.

He ignored him.

And he kept ignoring him for days. Until days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months.

Atsumu’s absence left a hole in his life that he didn’t want to acknowledge, so he did the next best thing — he covered it up by trying to make more friends. He softened towards his teammates. He became more open to Kenma and Akaashi. He spoke to his classmates instead of snubbing them.

The whole endeavor actually wasn’t that bad; most of the time, he actually found himself enjoying other people’s company.

When Atsumu started texting consistently again around June, it was easier to refuse to respond.

It was one July evening that a knock sounded on his door.

Kiyoomi looked up from his textbook and glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was 1 a.m. It could be anyone — maybe it was Akaashi or Kenma with an emergency; hell it could even be Kuroo, drunk and looking for a place to stay for the night because _‘Kenma will kill me, c’mon.’_ It had happened before.

With a sigh, Kiyoomi stood up and stretched before making his way to the door. He opened it.

Then slammed it shut again. And locked it for good measure.

Another knock. And then, “Omi, please. Let me in.”

Kiyoomi shut his eyes briefly. “What are you doing here, Miya?”

For a moment, Atsumu was silent. Then, in a defeated voice, he said, “We broke up.”

Of course. That was the only reason he would be here after all this time.

Shaking his head, Kiyoomi turned around, ready to go back studying — he had a quiz tomorrow, he really didn’t have time to deal with Atsumu’s moping. He couldn’t even remember the last time they _spoke_.

“Omi. Please. I need you.”

Kiyoomi cursed his weak heart for the way it immediately melted. Knowing very well that it was game over for him, he decided not to fight it anymore. That would just be inefficient. Resigned, he headed to the door to open it.

Atsumu looked every inch the drowned puppy — Kiyoomi hadn’t even realized that it rained, but it was clear from the way Atsumu was dripping on the floor that he got caught in it. His eyes were wide and sad, his hair soaked through and flattened.

“You look stupid,” Kiyoomi informed him.

The resulting pout he received was too adorable for his sanity at this ungodly hour.

With a sigh, Kiyoomi opened the door wider, allowing Atsumu to walk trudge through. He pushed it closed and faced his — what were they now even? Were they still best friends?

But first things first. “Go shower,” Kiyoomi said.

Atsumu followed the order, and Kiyoomi pulled out some clothes for him and laid them on the bed. He returned to his desk for another sweep of his notes.

When he heard the bathroom door open behind him, followed by the sounds of shuffling, Kiyoomi refused to turn around.

“Omi?”

Kiyoomi stared blankly at his notes. “Hmm?”

“Do you hate me?”

His own handwriting was swimming in front of his eyes. “Why would you think that.”

“Well...you don’t talk to me anymore,” Atsumu mumbled. “And it doesn’t look like you even wanna see me anymore.”

Weak, Sakusa Kiyoomi was weak. He accepted it. Schooling his face, he turned around in his chair. Atsumu looked more comfortable in clean clothes, but his eyes were still sad.

But weak Kiyoomi may be, he still wasn’t one to shy away from confrontation.

“You’re the one who pulled away first,” Kiyoomi accused.

“I know,” Atsumu said, which was more awareness than Kiyoomi had given him credit for. “I’m sorry.”

Kiyoomi took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, fine.” It wasn’t as if they could reverse the past few months. There was no point in being upset about it, even though he _was_ upset. “Go to sleep. I need to study.”

He turned and picked up a highlighter, intent on getting more studying done, and he was just thinking that he might actually succeed when arms wrapped around him from behind, a cold nose pressing against the back of his neck. His heart banged against its cage, disorienting him.

“Atsumu —”

“‘M sorry, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu murmured, breath fanning over highly sensitive skin. Kiyoomi’s heart beat even faster. “Really. Like super sorry.”

Just like that, all the anger he’d been nursing for the past few months melted away. Damn Miya Atsumu and his stupid sad eyes and his manipulative sweet ways. “Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry, too.” Kiyoomi pried Atsumu’s arms off of him, even though it was the last thing he wanted. “Get off me.”

Atsumu unwound his arms reluctantly and pulled away. Kiyoomi missed the warmth.

“I’ll just finish up here,” Kiyoomi said, stubbornly trying to cling to his rationality. “Go rest, or whatever.”

He heard the mattress squeak behind him and relaxed a little, trying to catch his breath.

There was no point in trying to study, because his mind was all over the place. But he tried his best to pretend.

When he thought that Atsumu was asleep, he tucked his notes and textbooks away and stretched. He shut off his lamp and blindly made his way to the bed.

Atsumu was there of course, because that was where he always slept even though Kiyoomi owned a futon. It started with one drunken night where they just fell into bed together, then they just never corrected it. It didn’t feel uncomfortable anyway.

Now the thought of climbing into Atsumu’s warmth made his stomach scream. But it was too late to kick him out now.

With a sigh, Kiyoomi sat on the edge of the bed and was immediately dragged down by a pair of hands, and squeezed mercilessly by a pair of arms.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu sang.

Kiyoomi kicked at Atsumu’s leg. “Can’t _breathe_.”

Snickering, Atsumu loosened his hold. “But I missed you.”

“Not my fault.”

“Yes it is,” Atsumu argued. “I’ve been texting and texting and texting. You’ve been ignoring me!”

Kiyoomi chewed the inside of his lip guiltily. But what was he to do? Atsumu was the one who got angry for seemingly no reason and ignored him for weeks. They never managed to return to their easy rhythm since then, and it became more painful the more Kiyoomi tried. It felt desperate. It was simpler to just...stop.

“You missed my birthday,” Kiyoomi said finally.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu said. “You missed my match. The championship — we lost, but it was held here in Tokyo.”

“I know.” _I watched on television_ , he didn’t say. That was three months ago, and the realization startled Kiyoomi. How long has it been since they talked properly, as friends? The conversation that started it all happened in _February_.

Maybe it was about time they fixed this.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi said. “For — everything.”

“Me, too.”

They smiled carefully at each other in the dim light coming from his window. Atsumu threw the blanket over both of them and slung his arm around Kiyoomi’s waist, dragging him closer.

“So what happened?” Kiyoomi asked.

Atsumu blew out a breath. “He didn’t get the whole volleyball thing.”

“Ah.” That was always the reason behind Atsumu’s short and failed relationships. They were attracted to Atsumu’s good looks and semi-celebrity status in the beginning, but eventually got disillusioned when they realized that volleyball was very much an inescapable part of him. “They never do.”

“And he wasn’t…” Atsumu studied Kiyoomi’s face then swerved. “Nevermind. It’s been over for a couple weeks now, I’m fine. I was more preoccupied about you being mad at me.”

“I wasn’t _mad_ …”

“You were.”

“I was a little mad,” Kiyoomi allowed. “But I’ve also been busy. School and volleyball and...friends.” The word was a little strange to say.

“Friends,” Atsumu repeated. “Friends? Who?”

“You know,” Kiyoomi said vaguely. “Classmates. Teammates.”

Atsumu just stared at him.

“I'm trying to do better with the whole _friends_ thing,” he tried to explain.

“Do you have a new _best_ friend?” Atsumu asked, his voice tight.

Kiyoomi didn’t appreciate his tone. Irritably, he said, “As of now I have _no_ best friend.”

Atsumu looked crushed. Based on the shine in his eyes, he might actually start crying any second.

“You don’t get to pull that on me,” Kiyoomi told him. “When you’re the one who pushed me aside for some guy.”

“I know, but I swear—”

“What?”

“He never became more important than you, okay?” Atsumu insisted. “No one’s gonna be more important than you, promise.”

Kiyoomi scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. One day you’ll meet—”

“No,” Atsumu said solemnly. “Never. I mean it.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? But Atsumu didn’t look like he had any intention of expounding. “Whatever,” Kiyoomi said.

“Omi? Am I not forgiven yet?”

“I—” Kiyoomi cut himself off with a sigh. Who was he even kidding? “Yeah, you are.”

Sniffling, Atsumu gazed at him with imploring eyes. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

Kiyoomi cuddled closer and closed his eyes, ready to put the past few months behind him and wake up to a new day. “I want umeboshi candy.”

“Okay,” Atsumu said quickly, tightening his arm around him.

“And there’s a curry restaurant I want to try,” he yawned.

“Okay.”

“Gonna sleep. Test tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

There was a whisper of a kiss against his forehead and Kiyoomi knew nothing more.

For the next few weeks, Atsumu refused to go home. It was off-season now, and apparently that meant he had no plans of leaving. He camped out in Kiyoomi’s dorm room, but he wasn’t _grieving_ his past relationship per se; he was just...there. He waited for Kiyoomi to finish class and took him out for late lunches or dinners; he remained quiet and obedient whenever Kiyoomi was studying; he insisted on catching up on the anime shows and movies they missed during the time they weren’t speaking. He was clingy and needy, but also doting in turn.

And he was making Kiyoomi’s head spin.

This couldn’t be good for him, could it? Kiyoomi's heart was doing all sorts of exercises now, it was driving him crazy.

 _Because you’re in love,_ his mind whispered. As if he needed the reminder. He wasn’t denying that.

But when he found himself stroking Atsumu’s face while watching him sleep, Kiyoomi accepted that this was no ordinary I’m-in-love-with-my-best-friend kind of thing.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime-love kind of thing.

It terrified him.

Because as much as he wanted to be the most important person in Atsumu’s life, he also had an idea now what it was like to lose him completely. And he’d much rather he got to keep Atsumu as a friend than risk what they had for his selfish desire for more.

So he did the only thing he could.

He said nothing.

**2017**

But now he was starting to think that maybe some things were worth saying, no matter the outcome. The tension that had been building between them since they became _‘best friends again’_ and coexisted in Kiyoomi’s dorm room for a month was starting to crack his resolve.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Atsumu would look at him as if Kiyoomi hung the moon, and it would send Kiyoomi’s brain running in circles. And sometimes Atsumu would place his hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh, and it would send his heart racing and teetering over the edge. Ready to fall. Destination unknown.

 _What if he loves me, too?_ he couldn’t help but think. _What if I confess?_

He didn’t have to say _‘Atsumu, you’re the love of my life,’_ or even _‘Atsumu, I’m in love with you.’_ Right? He could just say, _‘Atsumu, have you ever thought about whether we could be something more?’_

And if Atsumu laughs it off and says _‘Nah,’_ then Kiyoomi would just drown himself in alcohol and dance clumsily — and most likely awkwardly — with some stranger. After all, wasn’t that what college was for? Making mistakes and experimenting?

“Not to force you or anything, but it’s now or never,” Akaashi said.

“Now or never is an exaggeration,” Kiyoomi said drily. He finished the rest of his cocktail drink, wondering where all the alcohol was coming from. It seemed as if he had barely finished one when he was being handed another. Blinking blearily at his empty glass, Kiyoomi shrugged, uncaring. He had one drink too many, but there were no classes tomorrow anyway. He accepted another glass from Akaashi and took another sip.

“You keep thinking you have time, but look where you are now,” Kenma scolded. “Can you not let another few years pass again? I’m getting sick of watching you two be idiots.”

“You know what Kenma just said about someone else taking a shot?” Akaashi said. He nodded in Atsumu’s direction. “Like I said, it’s now or never.”

Tensing, Kiyoomi turned in his seat only to see Atsumu clearly being hit on. _Again_. Squinting, he wondered why the man looked familiar when it hit him — it was Rhys.

Atsumu’s ex.

Looking closer, Kiyoomi could see the frown on Atsumu’s face, and the hand that Rhys placed on his bicep. Atsumu’s teammates were still seated around the table, doing _nothing_ to stop it.

Kiyoomi whirled around to glare at Kenma, the movement making his head spin slightly. “You invited him? You _planned_ this?”

Kenma lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t invite him. But Kuro...he was in charge of invitations, I dunno.”

They’ve been friends long enough by now for Kiyoomi to be able to spot the mischievous glint in Kenma’s eyes. Sliding a glance at Akaashi, Kiyoomi spotted the almost imperceptible curl of his lips.

“You are the worst friends ever,” Kiyoomi declared.

“Time to get your man,” Akaashi smirked.

“Seriously, Kiyoomi.” Kenma looked serious now. “It’s worth it. I promise.” Then he smiled, happy and carefree and content, and the sight made Kiyoomi’s head spin further.

 _I want what he and Kuroo have_ , he realized. _More than anything._

And then, _We’re almost there. I just need to do this one step._

With that thought, Kiyoomi chugged down the rest of his drink, needing some liquid courage. Then he staggered to his feet, bracing himself against his chair when he nearly toppled over.

“Whoops,” Akaashi laughed lightly, holding him steady with a hand on his back. “Careful. Please try not to vomit on Atsumu-kun.”

“I won’t, I’m just going to ask him out,” Kiyoomi said decisively.

“Good,” Kenma praised. “Go on, then.”

With their blessing, he marched over to the neighboring table, drawing everyone’s attention when he got near enough.

“Hey, Sakusa-kun!” Bokuto greeted.

But Kiyoomi only had eyes on Atsumu, who was _still_ being accosted by Rhys. The other man was on his feet, leaning over Atsumu, seemingly about to sit on him — and Kiyoomi simply couldn’t have that.

Stalking over, Kiyoomi shoved him away carelessly. Rhys landed in a heap on the floor, legs splayed, and eyes wide in shock. “What the _hell_?” he screeched.

Kiyoomi sniffed. _Serves you right_.

Job done, he plopped himself on Atsumu’s lap, because he was the only one allowed there, dammit.

“Oof,” Atsumu said, arms coming up to hold him steady automatically. “Omi…?”

“I don’t like him,” Kiyoomi declared. He hugged Atsumu around the neck, trying to remember what he came here to say. He was starting to realize he must be drunker than he thought. The lights were spinning, the smell of alcohol intensifying. Wrinkling his nose, he tucked his face into Atsumu’s neck, breathing in his familiar smell. 

“Okay…” Atsumu said slowly. “Sorry, I don’t know why he’s here.” He rubbed Kiyoomi’s back. “You doing good?”

“I think I’m drunk,” he said honestly.

Atsumu snorted. “Yeah, you are.” Addressing someone else, he said, “Can someone get a bottle of water, please? Thanks.”

“You,” a voice accused. Rhys? “You must be the infamous _Omi_.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t be bothered to even acknowledge him. He made himself comfortable on Atsumu’s lap, curled around him possessively. He could fall asleep there; he felt so safe and secure. His eyelids were already drooping.

“Rhys, just leave,” Atsumu said, voice hard. “Can’t you see he’s not feeling well?”

Rhys scoffed. “ _Seriously?_ Oh my _god_. Just say you’re in love with him and go.”

Silence, except for the persistent beat of the music. Or was that Atsumu’s heartbeat? Or perhaps his own? He felt both alert and drunk at the same time; he might be losing his mind.

“I said leave,” Atsumu ordered, a few seconds too late.

There was a string of curses before silence reigned once again.

 _I’m on a rollercoaster,_ Kiyoomi thought nonsensically. This felt like the exact moment before the drop, like he was at the very top anticipating the free fall, but he couldn’t do anything about it now — it was too late to escape.

He took the plunge.

Lifting his head from its hiding place, he gazed at Atsumu and patted his hair clumsily. “Do you?”

Atsumu averted his eyes, face a violent red. “I mean...you gotta know.”

“So yes?”

“Omi…”

“ _Yes_?” he pressed.

“ _Yes_ , alright already,” Atsumu ground out, sounding extremely taxed. “Jeez, this was not the way I planned on doing this, fucking Rhys…”

Kiyoomi scowled. “Don’t say his name,” he snapped.

“Okay, sorry.”

Then Kiyoomi remembered that he was trying to confess, so he probably shouldn’t be acting like a brat. Softening, he cupped his hand around Atsumu’s ear and leaned in, as if telling him a secret.

“I’m in love with you too,” he whispered, letting free the words that were just for Atsumu to hear.

And underneath him, Atsumu stilled. Kiyoomi leaned back to study his face.

He was smiling.

“Figured that out, did you?” Atsumu asked, eyes twinkling. And of course he already knew. Sometimes Kiyoomi thought Atsumu knew him better than he knew himself.

It struck him then that Atsumu had probably been _waiting_.

Kiyoomi scowled. Couldn’t the idiot have said anything before?

Just then, a bottle of water popped up between them, courtesy of one Bokuto Koutarou. “Here!” he yelled.

“Nice timing,” he heard Inunaki say. “Sit _down_ , Bokuto.”

Atsumu grabbed the bottle of water and cracked it open, jostling Kiyoomi who was still in his arms. He held it up to Kiyoomi’s mouth. “Drink. You’re so out of it, Omi. I really hope you’ll still remember this tomorrow.”

Kiyoomi obediently gulped down the water, only realizing he was thirsty when the liquid hit his throat. When he’d had enough, he pushed Atsumu’s hand away and slumped against his chest.

“Wanna sit on, you know, an actual chair?” Atsumu sounded amused. “Or we could go home?”

“I'm not moving,” Kiyoomi stated. “Your lap is comfortable.”

To prove it, he wiggled around, clinging to Atsumu even though he knew he wouldn’t be pushed away.

Because Atsumu loved him, too.

The realization finally sank in, freezing him in place. Atsumu _loved_ him. And he’d just told Atsumu that he loved him back.

It was too simple, too good to be true. But if it was real, then that meant he could get everything he’d been secretly wanting, right? That meant he could ask for kisses, right?

He placed his hand on Atsumu’s neck and tugged. “Atsumu. Kiss.”

Atsumu huffed out a laugh, then he leaned in until their eyes met. He paused for an unbearable second, then pressed a kiss...to his forehead.

“Our first kiss isn’t going to be in some club while you’re drunk, Omi,” Atsumu murmured in his ear. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk. If you remember.”

“I’ll remember,” Kiyoomi said stubbornly, disappointed but hopeful. The spinning lights were making him more than a little light-headed. Or perhaps it was the happiness of having his love returned? He no longer knew. But hell if he was letting this go. “If I don’t, remind me.”

“Oh god, I don’t know if I can do this again,” Atsumu said with a little laugh. “Do you know what you do to me? Fuck, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

“Is it because I’m heavy,” Kiyoomi slurred.

Atsumu laughed again, louder this time. “I won’t lie, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

Kiyoomi shifted, intending to move away, but Atsumu held him by the waist in a tight grip. “Oh no, you don’t. Stay right there.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi said in satisfaction. He pressed a kiss to Atsumu’s neck, smirking at the sound of a sharp inhale. “Atsumu.”

“What,” Atsumu asked, strained.

Kiyoomi nuzzled his neck. “Atsumu.”

“ _What_ , Omi.”

“I need to tell you something. Something important I’ve been keeping from you.”

“Another big secret?” Atsumu craned his head to look him in the face. “What is it? Is it bad? Will I like this? Oh god, it’s bad, isn’t it. You can’t let me be happy for five minutes?”

“Why do you have to be such a drama queen?” Kiyoomi shook his head and nearly fell off his perch on Atsumu’s lap and straight onto the floor. Right, no moving too much. “No. I was gonna wait to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve decided.”  
  
“Decided _what_? You’re killing me here.”

“I’m in my senior year.”

“Yes? I know.”

“I’ll be graduating in March next year. That’s a few months from now.”

“And…?”

Kiyoomi was almost vibrating in excitement now. He wasn’t supposed to tell this to Atsumu yet, but he seemed to have lost his brain to mouth filter at some point during the walk from his table to this one. “And I’m going to go pro, as you know.”

Atsumu stopped breathing.

“And scouts have already been reaching out to me…”

“Oh god,” Atsumu broke. “Just tell me already.”

“I got an invitation from one Samson Foster to try out for the MSBY Black Jackals—”

“Holy fuck, I can’t take the suspense.” Atsumu grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him. “Omi, come _on_ , did you fucking accept or not?”

Kiyoomi laughed at Atsumu’s urgent expression. “You look _stupid_.”

“Omi,” Atsumu snapped.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, _what_?”

“Yeah, I accepted. And obviously I’m gonna get in—”

Atsumu whooped and jumped to his feet, yelling, “Yes!”

Unfortunately, this had the effect of sending Kiyoomi crashing to the floor. “ _Ow!_ ”

There were laughter and cheers around him as he laid there, wide-eyed and confused and upset.

“I’m sorry!” Atsumu knelt beside him. “I’m sorry, I got a bit overexcited—”

“You think?” Kiyoomi snarled, trying to lift himself up. Atsumu guided him to a sitting position, but Kiyoomi slapped at his hands. “Go away! I’m breaking up with you.”

“We’re not even properly together yet,” Atsumu protested. “Omi, wait, no, I’m sorry—”

Kiyoomi heaved himself up to his feet, staggering away, irritated beyond measure. That floor was fucking _filthy_. He needed a bath; he needed to go home.

But before he could take another step, an arm was winding around his waist, but instead of pulling him back, it was pulling him _forward_.

“What are you doing?” Kiyoomi asked, lost now. Years of friendship and Atsumu still managed to confuse him. Did he have to be so unpredictable?

Atsumu looked back at him and winked. “Taking my boyfriend for a spin on the dance floor, what’s it look like?”

“I thought we’re not properly together yet,” he scoffed, pretending that his insides weren’t twisting together upon hearing the word _‘boyfriend.’_

Still, he followed.

There were bodies wiggling around, but Atsumu stopped by the edge, ensuring that they stood some distance from the crowd. He held Kiyoomi close and grinned at him. “Tomorrow I’ll take you out on a date and maybe we can kiss after.” He wagged his eyebrows, because he was a dork like that. “You’re gonna have to take me home tonight, but I promise to respect you until you’re sober.”

Kiyoomi snorted. “Why are you such a _loser_?”

“You like this loser.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Atsumu’s grin widened. Kiyoomi placed his hands on his shoulder just as the music slowed.

The songs had been swinging from J-pop to K-pop the entire night, but this time, the DJ seemed to be in the mood for some American classics, because Crazy For You started blaring out of the speakers.

“Madonna?” Kiyoomi raised an eyebrow.

“Perfect,” Atsumu said. He started moving them in time with the slower beat, and oddly enough, they found themselves unable to meet each other’s eyes. Kiyoomi was pretty sure he was blushing, and wasn’t that just embarrassing?

Atsumu laughed a little and he followed suit. Hit by an overwhelming wave of affection, Kiyoomi lunged forward and hugged Atsumu around the shoulders tight. Atsumu hugged him back just as securely.

And _this_ was worth risking everything for. Where else would he find love like this? It was spilling out of him, uncontrollable.

“Love you,” Kiyoomi mumbled.

“Love you, too,” Atsumu said.

They swayed to 80’s music, and then to club music, for the rest of the night.

**2021**

Atsumu grabbed him around the waist and hefted him up an inch from the floor; Kiyoomi huffed out a laugh, winded.

“I can’t believe it,” Atsumu was saying again and again. “We’re going to the Olympics!”

“Of course we are,” Kiyoomi wheezed. “Can’t breathe, love.”

Atsumu set him down and grabbed him by the cheeks. “Omi! Babe! We’re going to the Olympics!”

“I know.” Kiyoomi leaned in and planted a kiss on Atsumu’s mouth. “We made it.”

Chasing his lips, Atsumu kissed him until they were both breathless. Satisfied, he leaned away and almost immediately continued chattering away. “Can you believe we’re teammates forever now? And after you griped about that not being in the plan—”

“Oh, shut it,” Kiyoomi snorted. “I was in _high school_. Besides, I followed you to Osaka, didn’t I?”

Atsumu hummed, satisfied. “And now we go to the world stage together. Omi-Omi, I’m so happy.”

“Me, too.” He couldn’t wait to tell Kenma and Keiji, even though they probably already knew. Kenma would probably host another dinner in his and Kuroo’s big house.

“You won’t leave me for another team, would you?” Atsumu checked.

“We’re only leaving if we get to go together,” Kiyoomi assured.

“Yeah, okay.” Atsumu was bouncing on his toes now, a childish delight washing over his face. He was 25 now and every inch the man Kiyoomi knew he’d grow up to be, but there were times he smiled like that and he looked like he’d barely just begun. “I can’t believe it.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I know, but look,” Atsumu insisted. “This is the future I used to dream about. Can you believe I’m living my dream future? Volleyball and Olympics and _you_?”

“What are you talking about, idiot?” Smiling, Kiyoomi pressed a kiss to his temple, twiddling the gold ring on his finger with a thumb. “This is just the beginning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah Kenma and Akaashi are there because I got lazy to think up OCs so I was just like hmm...who’s in Tokyo...also I love them. Also I’ve never been in a Japanese university campus
> 
> I had to dig deep through my 2013-2014 college memories that had my own *cough* best friend in it, so. Some convos are directly inspired by *cough* my own. I hope you liked it! I for one love vague relationships the best
> 
> You can find me on Twitter (@lettersinpetals)!


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